


We were all young

by JamesJohnEye



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 14:50:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15317859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesJohnEye/pseuds/JamesJohnEye
Summary: ‘Talkin’ crazy,’ Charlie mutters faintly while he looks out over the garden again. ‘’s what happens when you’re old, Paul. People start to  - they think you’re talking crazy.'





	We were all young

**Author's Note:**

> Got bored during a conference. Hope you like it.

 

* * *

 

 

‘There was a girl,’ Charlie says with distant eyes. He waves a vague hand. ‘Young. We were all young then.’

‘I bet there were lots of girls,’ Paul answers. There’s a fond smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

‘Lots of girls,’ Charlie murmurs in agreement. ‘And – and in the beginning it was – it was exciting,’ he says as he reaches out for Paul’s arm to keep him close. ‘But after a while… I didn’t think it could get boring. Monotonous. It was always the same. We would go out and they would come here afterwards and,’ he waves his hand again. ‘Always the same.’

Paul laughs. ‘If that got boring, you were doing it wrong.’

Charlie ignores him. ‘One time, - another girl, beautiful black hair – I remember it so well. I remember it,’ he nods, eyes darting through the garden. ‘She struggled. Fought me a bit. I liked that.’

Paul sits down on his own heels and frowns as he looks at the old man. ‘What do you mean, she struggled?’

Charlie laughs softly. ‘A little minx, she was, but I got her in the end. And then I realized; girls are frail little things, aren’t they? And I was young; strong as a horse. Even that small act of resistance… it _thrilled_ me. I wanted something more- something...’ His hand moves down to grasp Paul’s. ‘Something….’

Paul lets his thumb rub circles into the wrinkled hand of the older man. ‘You’re talking crazy again, Charlie,’ he says gently. ’Let’s get you upstairs so you can rest.’

‘Talkin’ crazy,’ Charlie mutters faintly while he looks out over the garden again. ‘’s what happens when you’re old, Paul. People start to  - they think you’re talking crazy. That you’re – ‘ he taps the side of his head with his finger, ‘gone. Going. But I remember. The black haired beauty, the one with the funny ears, that girl with legs that would just go on forever.’ Charlie smiles at Paul, eyes a dull blue color. ‘And their voices – just – beautiful. Some would sound like singing birds when they screamed.’

Unease crawls up Paul’s spine. ‘Why were they screaming?’

The old man huffs out a breath of laughter. He squeezes the younger man’s hand. ‘You’re not that innocent, Jesus. Ah,’ he laughs again, ‘men don’t scream?’

‘Oh,’ Paul ducks his head and feels a blush blooming on his cheeks. ‘I thought… never mind.’

Charlie’s amused laughter turns in a coughing fit. His frail body doubles over in the wheelchair as he gasps for air. He coughs a couple more times, shaking hands pushing away Paul’s as the young man tries to help him. ‘I’m fine – I’m, I’m fine. Water, my boy.’ He takes sips from the cup Paul holds for him and then weakly pushes him away again. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s what you get for laughing at me,’ Paul jokes.

‘God’s punishment for tormenting his son,’ Charlie smiles. His gaze wanders back to the lush garden. The shadows are growing longer now that the sun is sinking over the horizon. The garden has been claimed by the surrounding forest decades ago. Trees are growing freely among patches of wild flowers, the green almost hiding the gravel path that must have led through the garden at some point. ‘Look at it,’ the man sighs happily. ‘Beautiful.’

Paul sits down on his heels beside the wheel chair and looks at the overgrown garden. ‘Yeah,’ he smiles. ‘It really is.’

Charlie reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a good kid, Paul. A good kid.’

Paul laughs softly. At the age of 32, he’s hardly a kid anymore, but he lets it slide. ‘Come on, let me help you upstairs. It’s time for bed.’

Charlie doesn’t object or change the subject this time. Instead, he gives the garden one last longing look before Paul wheels him out of the living room and to the hallway. There’s a chairlift there, for which Paul is glad. Charlie isn’t heavy and he could easily lift the man up, but he’s not legally allowed to do so. Most of the time beds get placed in living rooms, but he has found that people sleep easier in their own bedrooms. By the time Paul enters people’s lives, they’ve already given up on so much that he often can’t bear to deny them that one familiarity.

He helps Charlie into the bathroom where they do their nightly routine. It doesn’t take very long now. In the beginning, the older man would refuse his help in order to try and hold on to a false sense of dignity but now he lets Paul help to get out of his clothes and into his pajamas, only muttering unhappily under his breath when the young man has to help him with going to the toilet.

 Paul ignores it. It doesn’t bother him. After doing this job for over ten years, he’s used to any and all situations, and he’s glad he can help.

Twenty minutes later, Charlie sinks back into the cushions on his bed with a content sigh. He pulls the blankets higher and then holds out his hands for the book he’s been reading. ‘Thank you, Jesus.’

‘Sure thing,’ Paul fills the glass by the bed with water and then checks whether the alarm is hanging right next to the bed where Charlie will be able to grab it should anything happen. ‘All good?’

‘All good,’ the man smiles. ‘Thank you, go home now. You spend far too much time here already.’ He settles deeper into the cushions. ‘Not for much longer though. I can feel it,’ he puts his hand over his heart. ‘I can _feel_ it.’

‘You’re talking crazy again,’ Paul says. ‘You’ll grow to be a hundred.’

‘Shrink, you mean. I used to be –‘ he waves at the area far above Paul’s head, ‘just – hmm. Tall. Strong.’

‘Handsome, too, I bet. All gone now,’ Paul teases. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Do press the button if you need help. No being stubborn anymore,’ he warns with a stern look as he hovers on the threshold. ‘Good night, Charlie.’

‘Good night, Jesus. Thank you.’

Paul gives him a last smile before making his way downstairs and out of the door, locking it behind him.

 

 

There’s music playing when Paul steps into his own hallway and kicks his boots into a corner. As soon as the door closes, wild barking erupts in the kitchen and the clicking of nails tells him to prepare to be jumped at any second. A blur of gray and black skits around the corner to greet him.

‘ _No_!’ Paul says sharply but it never works. ‘Blue, no!’ He has to take a step backwards to keep his balance when a large Husky jumps into him, panting and barking and trying to lick his face. ‘Please no! You saw me this afternoon, you goose! Stop!’

A sharp whistle causes the dog to calm immediately. Triangle ears swivels before Blue runs back to the kitchen. Paul follows him. It doesn’t surprise him that the dog is sitting perfectly still next to his boyfriend, who is cooking dinner.

‘Why does your whistle work and my _no_ is in another language? Explain that to me.’

‘I’m the alpha,’ Daryl smirks as he leans away from the stove to give him a kiss. ‘Hey. Old man still alive?’

‘Old man still alive,’ Paul confirms as he hoists himself onto the kitchen island behind Daryl. He plucks some grapes out of a bowl and pops them into his mouth, ‘you on call?’

‘Yeah, Patricia had this… thing, I dunno. Took her shift,’ Daryl murmurs. He’s still wearing his uniform and tool belt. A backwards cap keeps his long hair out of his eyes and flashes the letters ASPCA at Paul. ‘Taco’s okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Got a double shift tomorrow by the way, can you take Blue to the old man? He don’t mind, right?’

‘ _Another_ double? You’re trying to make us millionaires or are you cheating on me?’

Daryl laughs and turns around, planting both of his hands next to his boyfriend’s hips so they’re nose to nose. ‘Trying to get our asses on some tropical beach this summer instead of in that goddamn camper.’

Paul smirks, ‘I thought you loved camping.’

‘That ain’t camping, locking me into a miniature house next to sixty families with brats screaming all night for their fucking xbox. Nah, we’re going someplace nice this time. Carl’s going to watch Blue.’

‘We’re going to get a fat and spoiled dog back.’

‘We’re gonna be fat and spoiled ourselves, so he’ll fit right in,’ Daryl leans in to let their foreheads rest against each other’s for a brief moment. Then he pats Paul’s knee and turns back to the stove, stirring the contents in a pan. ‘Good day?’

‘Well, he didn’t die, so yeah…. I guess.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

Paul sighs and grabs another grape. Blue spots the food and eagerly makes his way over, tail thumping against Daryl’s leg while he looks up at the younger man. Paul shakes his head, ‘you can’t have it, it’ll kill you. Go beg Daryl for some meat.’

Blue turns to Daryl hopefully.

‘Oh _now_ he listens to me,’ Paul smirks, reaches out to nudge Blue’s butt with his foot. ‘Brat. Love you,’ he says when the dog looks back.

‘He has his own food. Stop encouraging him.’

Paul rolls his eyes, ‘who sneaks him food every chance he gets?’

‘Stop,’ Daryl says and Paul can hear the grin in his voice. ‘Tell me about your day then. Old man spouting bull again?’

‘Yeah. It’s the way he says things, it’s so…’ He shakes his head and sighs. ‘Sometimes I think he’s joking, but other times it’s like he’s dead serious and it sounds… wrong. Like there’s something wrong with what he – what he’s saying. The way he talks about things that happened in the past… I don’t know.’

‘He’s old and he’s dying, it’s a bad combo, man. They think they can get away with anything. No need to be _correct_ about nothing no more, ya know? Jess were exactly the same – my uncle? Hmm. Piece of shit. Nigger this, faggot that. Thought only God could judge him. Who the hell is gonna punch an eighty year old in the teeth?’

‘You,’ Paul says with a soft laugh. ‘That was one of the wildest visits to an elderly home I’ve ever seen.’

Daryl laughs and shakes his head. ‘How many times do you want me to tell ya; you were right. We shouldn’t have gone.’

‘That wasn’t even my intention, but it’s always nice to hear,’ Paul grins.

‘Yeah, yeah. Set the table?’

Paul slides off the counter and presses a kiss to Daryl’s shoulder before heading to their dining room.

 

 

The next morning Paul walks up to the giant house with Blue jumping around his legs. The dog has been theirs for two years now. Daryl and his partner had rescued him from a foreclose building where he’d been left behind. Shackled to a steel pipe and so skinny that they could count his ribs through the window. Coat matted with his own feces and scared of any human being.

It had taken Daryl almost two weeks to make the dog trust him. Months later, Daryl walked around with a nasty scowl on his face and it had taken Paul days to figure out that it was because Blue was put up for adoption and would probably be scooped up soon.

He was theirs by the end of the week.

‘Sit,’ Paul murmurs as he puts the keys in the lock and Blue sits down immediately, tongue lolling out. It’s no secret that he prefers Daryl but bounds after Paul whenever his savior isn’t available. He’s a good dog, filled with as much energy as Paul, and just as stubborn as Daryl.

Blue stays downstairs while Paul walks to the first floor to check on Charlie. The old man is already awake. He’s staring out of the window with glassy eyes, wrinkled hands plucking at the sleeves of his pajamas. He doesn’t verbally respond when Paul greets him but his gaze slowly moves to him.

‘Good morning, Charlie,’ Paul repeats. He sits down on the edge of the bed. ‘How did you sleep?’

Charlie stares at him. His mouth moves like he wants to say something but then his gaze wanders back to the window.

‘Not a good day today, hmm? That’s okay, we’ll take it easy. I brought a friend to see you.’

Charlie doesn’t react.

Paul reaches out and squeezes his hand before starting with his usual chores. He administers Charlie’s medicine and takes his vitals, jotting them down on several forms and taking notes on the man’s unresponsive behavior. It happens every couple of days and it doesn’t worry Paul as much as it used to.

After an hour, Paul has helped Charlie get dressed and they head downstairs.

Charlie’s eyes light up when he sees Blue padding around the living room. He looks up at Paul and reaches for the man’s hand on the handlebars of his wheelchair, patting it.

‘I told you I’d brought a friend,’ Paul smiles.

‘Blue,’ Charlie says breathlessly.

‘That’s right, his name is Blue. No. _down_ , Blue. Good boy.’

‘Good boy,’ Charlie echoes as a shaking hand reaches out for the dog. He laughs when he feels one of Blue’s triangle ears brush against it.

Breakfast is a painstaking affair. Charlie’s eyes are dull and normally he’d scoff at the notion of Paul helping him, but now he hardly even responds when the younger man takes the spoon to do it. Afterwards, Paul takes Charlie back to the large windows overlooking the garden.

‘Do you want me to get your book? Put on the radio?’

Charlie stares at the tall trees and doesn’t answer.

‘Okay, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Come on, Blue!’ He grabs a tennis ball from his backpack and heads outside. It’s not the first time he had to take Blue with him to a client, he hates being home alone and no amount of training will keep a husky from getting bored and tearing up the place.

Paul throws the tennis ball and heads down the garden path. Last time he’d ran to the house with Blue in the early morning so the dog would sleep through most of the work day and Daryl had come to get him by lunch time. The house is located a couple of miles out of town, down an overgrown path that most miss. It used to be a grand, formidable house but it has fallen into disrepair now.

Blue comes bounding back and hands the ball over, sprinting away when Paul throws it again.

A sign on one of the trees draws Paul’s attention. He walks through the tall grass to get a closer look. It’s a small plank, barely bigger than Paul’s hand. It bears a name.

Anna.

Paul frowns and reaches out to trace the letters. They seemed to be scratched into the wood with a pocket knife. He looks around the garden and spots another tree with another sign.

Marjorie.

He looks around and spots more and more signs.

Gwen.

Isabella.

Hailey.

Ava.

The one at the very back is different, even though it’s only because it bears a man’s name.

Mark.

Paul sits down on the overgrown fence at the back of the garden. Through the trees he can see Charlie. The old man is watching the garden like every single day. It’s his favorite spot in the house, in front of the large windows, overlooking his pride and joy.

 

 

‘Charlie,’ Paul says as he sinks to one knee in front of the wheel chair fifteen minutes later. ‘What’s up with those signs in the garden? You named your trees?’ He asks skeptically before laughing.

Charlie licks his lips and frowns, looking around like he can’t quite understand what he’s talking about.

‘The signs in the garden,’ Paul puts his hand on the man’s knee. ‘Anna. Ava? Mark?’

‘Yes,’ Charlie nods.

‘Why are the names there? Do you know them? Are they… your family members? Grand children?’

Nobody has visited Charlie since Paul has started as his care assistant, but there are pictures in the hallway. He’s always assumed they were his children or grandchildren. Perhaps they live in a different state and can’t visit too often. But Charlie makes an agitated sound and waves him away.

‘Not your family? Hey, easy,’ Paul rubs his knee, ‘you’ve never told me, so don’t get mad that I don’t know.’

Charlie sighs and pats his chest where his heart is. ‘Mine,’ he says.

‘Your what?’

The man pats his chest again. ‘Mine.’ The small movement causes him to be out of breath. His skin is pale, sickly looking with a hint of gray, and even his eyes seem dull. He can’t focus for very long, gaze wandering through the room as if he doesn’t recognize it, always coming to rest on the greenery.

Paul frowns and squeezes his knee.

He won’t grow to be a hundred after all. Charlie had been right. He’s dying.

Paul puts on soft music Charlie likes and heads upstairs with a curious husky hot on his heels. He enters the office right next to the man’s bedroom. The room is barely furnished, most of the old furniture has already been thrown away or donated per Charlie’s wishes. Right in front of two large windows, however, sits an old desk, beautifully carved from dark wood. It wouldn’t surprise Paul if it had belonged to Charlie’s parents. The house had been built by them and no doubt his father had sat at this very desk to do his paperwork.

In the top drawer, there’s a thick stack of papers.

Paul sits at the desk and reads through it one more time, like he always does when the end is drawing near for his clients. Most of the forms are empty. There’s nobody listed who he should contact, nobody who should be notified in advance or even when Charlie is gone. There’s a will but it doesn’t mention any people. Most of his money will go to charity, one that fights to preserve national parks.

With a sigh, Paul pulls the drawer open to put the paperwork back again. When he looks down however, he notices that he’s pulled open the wrong one. The second drawer from the top is filled with newspaper clippings. Most are yellowed with age, the corners curling up, but none in terrible condition. They’ve probably been in this drawer for years.

He takes the top one out. It’s from a local newspaper. A story about a 22 year old girl gone missing years ago. A cold case being reopened and then closed again when the new investigation didn’t provide new information. He scans the page and then stops.

He knows that girl.

There’s a faded picture of her on the right. Dark hair and bright eyes, a smile that would have lit up a room.  Wearing her graduation robes, blowing the tassel away from her face. 22 years old. Gone missing decades ago.

Paul leans back in the chair and studies the picture. He wasn’t even alive when she went missing and he didn’t grow up in this area, there’s no way they knew each other. But still, he knows her.

He looks at the name.

Anna.

A cold feeling settles in his stomach.

With a shaking hand, he reaches into the drawer and pulls the stack of news clippings out. They’re not just about Anna. Girls gone missing in this county and neighboring ones. All around 22 years old, some a couple years old, one younger. They’re all posing with their graduation caps. Beaming at the camera.

He knows those pictures. Didn’t know their names were Anna, or Michelle, or Gwen or Isabella or…

A smaller clip of a missing 24 year old guy in a neighboring county. The only picture that has no graduation cap, but instead has a grinning guy leaning on the shoulder of his best friend at a baseball game.

Mark, he knows before checking the name.

Paul jumps when Blue’s tail thumps against his leg in the passing. His heart is racing. He stands up and walking to the hallway with the clippings in his hand. There are pictures on the walls.

He holds the newspapers up.

Anna, Michelle, Gwen, Isabella, Mark between Ava and Hailey.

The pictures match. And the names match the ones on the trees outside.

‘What the hell is going on,’ Paul murmurs. ‘Blue, downstairs, psst!’ He gestures to the staircase and lets the dog bound down first, a tactic that works for them after Paul has been bowled over one too many times at home. He follows the husky into the living room and stops on the threshold.

Charlie is staring out into the garden with glassy eyes. He hasn’t moved all the while Paul was upstairs.

The younger man moves closer and has to force himself to kneel down in front of the man. ‘Charlie,’ he says to get his attention, and then puts the news clippings in his lap. ‘What is all this?’

The man doesn’t respond.

‘Michelle? Hailey?’ Paul tries. ‘Who were they? Gwen?’

The names cause Charlie to look down at the pictures. His fingers reach out, plucking at the yellowing pages. A smile creeps onto his face, he even sits up. ‘Gwen.’

‘Yes, Gwen,’ Paul urges. ‘Do you know what happened to her?’

Charlie nods. He opens and closes his mouth, gaze wandering through the room.

‘What happened to her?’

‘Little minx,’ Charlie says with a smile. ‘I told you.’

Paul stands up. He looks down at the old, frail man in his wheelchair. The man he has been taking care of for months now. The one who used to be strong and handsome.

‘She tried to run,’ Paul says softly. ‘She struggled.’

‘Yes.’ Charlie looks out of the window again, smiling at the sight of his garden. ‘I got her just in time, too. Look at them,’ he gestures to the trees. ‘Beautiful.’

 

 

Paul is sitting on the porch when Rick’s patrol car rolls up to the house. Blue is sitting between his legs, wet nose pushing against his collarbone whenever his hands still and he stops stroking the warm coat.

It’s Shane who jumps out first. He leans on the car door with his arms. ‘You know something about Gwen Summerland? Ava Washer? What the hell is going on, Jesus?’

‘I don’t know,’ Paul says. His gaze flickers to Rick, who gets out too with a hand on his revolver. ‘The guy who lives here…  He has - in the backyard… I thought the forest was just taking over, right? But I think he _planted_ those trees.’

‘What trees, Jesus,’ Rick asks as he steps up to the man and lets Blue sniff his hand to make him stop whining. ‘Easy, buddy, just me. Hey,’ he tweaks the triangle ear fondly and the dog licks his hand.

‘I think he planted trees in his garden.’

Shane sighs and slumps.

‘They have signs on them,’ Paul tells him. ‘Their names are carved in them!’

Rick glances at his partner.

‘He has news clippings of the time they went missing, newspapers of when cases were reopened and closed again – _he has their pictures on his wall!_ ’

Shane perks up and stalks over to the porch, putting his hand on the gun. He looks at Rick. ‘Could be the creep they were looking for. The ages match. Worth checking it at least.’

‘Yeah, let’s go talk to him.’

Paul gets up. ‘Rick,’ he says just before the cop knocks on the door. ‘He’s old. He’s dying.’

‘So? Should we feel sorry for him or something?’ Shane sneers as he pushes the door open and heads inside, calling out to Charlie.

Rick looks back at Paul. ‘I got it,’ he says before following his partner inside.

Paul sits down on the steps again and loops his arms around Blue’s neck, hiding his face in the warm fur.

 

 

Charlie died two days later.

The bodies were dug up two weeks after that, in the backyard, from under those beautiful trees.

 

 


End file.
